


Home

by SpraceJunkie



Category: Newsies - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of past child abuse, Panic Attack Mention, Race is a really good husband and Spot just needs support, Spot had PTSD and a horrible childhood, tw list:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-27
Updated: 2018-05-27
Packaged: 2019-05-14 12:47:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14769926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpraceJunkie/pseuds/SpraceJunkie
Summary: After Spot's parents die and he's the nearest living relative, he has to go back to the apartment where he grew up.Part of the Kayla AU, which is an old AU I tend to use as the default for general fics about Spot and Race.





	Home

Spot never expected to be standing in this room again.

The weird thing was it was almost exactly the same, and yet completely different.

There was the same couch, years more worn and years more disgusting, the same grimy windows and he could have sworn it was even the same food in the same containers sitting out in the kitchen.

But now, he wasn't afraid. He didn’t feel small, he wasn’t worried about if he would wake up in the morning.

Part of that was Race’s steady hand on the small of his back, reminding him that however much was exactly the same, so much was different.

Much of it, not matter how awful it was to admit, was knowing, _they’re gone, they can’t come back, they’re dead and buried and can’t ever hurt me again_.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the woman had said as she’d let them in, handing him the key to the apartment he’d hated all his life, the apartment that was technically his now.

“Sorry for his loss” like every memory he had there wasn’t the worst of his life.

“Sorry for his loss” like he didn’t still wake up with nightmares taking place there.

“Sorry for his loss” like the people who had died had given him anything but reasons to hate them for as long as he’d been alive.

“You okay?” Race asked, grounding Spot from his thoughts.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” He stepped forward to touch the things on the coffee table, to shift the books and see what was underneath, almost to assure himself everything was real, and not part of a some nightmare that would end with him waking up unable to breathe and scared out of his mind.

He wandered through the rest of the apartment until he ended up in the room that used to be his bedroom.

It was untouched from how he’d left it, thinking he’d be back for the summer but never coming back. His bed was made, his sister’s bed against the other wall wasn’t, sheets and blankets tangled like she’d just gotten up, like his eight year-old sister was going to come out from behind him and confide in him, whisper something secret, start a quiet game, convince him to climb up to the roof to escape the yelling surrounding them.

He blinked and the illusion was gone, leaving him standing alone in a dusty, lonely room, bookshelves with a few books scattered on them, a blue plastic cup tipped over on the floor, whatever had been in it staining the carpet greenish blue.

On a whim, he lifted the mattress of his old bed to see if any of his old notebooks had survived the years and _them_.

Under the mattress, there was only one, but when he remembered how carefully he’d hidden them and reached into the tear on the cover of the boxspring, he felt all of the ones he’d tucked away.

He pulled them out one by one, stacking them next to him on the floor. Colored school notebooks, ratty notebooks he’d found around and whited out so he could use them, notebooks he’d bought with carefully saved change.

There were eleven, including the one that had just been under his mattress, the oldest from when he was ten and the last one he remembered being not even half full, the one he’d been working on when he’d left and never come back.

The first one was childish, full of large handwriting and angry drawings, reminding him of who he was before his resolve hardened and he started to plan his way out. Before Kayla was born, before he’d realized he was gay, before his writing was his escape, when it was still just a way to vent, to get it out.

He flipped through all his pages, watching himself grow up in his own words, almost like he was watching his own ghost flitter around him, living its life exactly as he’d lived his.

White spots growing as scars were added, tired eyes, an old man’s soul trapped in a kid’s body as he took care of a baby, a toddler, a kid, as he learned to steal their food from a different bodega every week, to hide his emotions as carefully as his notebooks, to deal with crushes on boy, to hide pain and press forward so he could escape.

His handwriting got smaller, more precise, the drawings disappeared, random sentences morphed into stories into bad poems into good poems.

Race came in a sat down on the floor next to him, gently resting a hand on Spot’s knee just to reassure him he was there.

“Nine years worth of me. This is everything.”

“Will you save them?” Spot closed the last one, setting it back on top of the pile.

“Yeah. Nothing else.” He closed his eyes and leaned against Race. “The rest of it can go.”

“Where?”

“I don't care. Donate it, burn it, throw it away, I don’t want it.”

There were too many memories attached to everything here, memories he didn’t want to remember. The notebooks preserved _him_ , they preserved his growth and let him see how far he had come, how even his worst days now beat his best then.

The other things surrounding him preserved pain and fear, small kids scared for their lives, nightmares. There was nothing good here, even the atmosphere was oppressive, suffocating.

Eventually they stood up and went through the rest of the apartment, Spot touching and remembering, Race quietly letting his husband process.

For him, it was strange. Spot seemed smaller, like just being back in the home he’d hated so much was compressing him, pushing him down.

When Race thought of Spot, in general, vulnerable wasn’t a word he’d use to describe him.

Spot was strong. He was tough. He was thoughtful and caring and smart and funny. He didn’t let anybody tell him no, he didn’t let anyone beat him down.

Here, he looked lost and broken, like every thing he saw and touched opened a wound he’d forgotten he had.

When Race had walked into the bedroom to find Spot sitting on the dirty carpet, surrounded by notebooks full of childish scribbles and more mature writing, he’d never seen that expression on his face before.

He’d seen Spot go through hell. He’d held him when he woke up from nightmares, been there through ups and downs. He’d seen Spot build himself back up from the shell his parents had left him, from a terrified, alone kid with sky high walls he didn’t let anyone through to the person he was now, strong and sure of himself, unafraid to be who he was.

He’d seen Spot angry, heartbroken, scared, frustrated, proud, lonely, regretful, happy. They’d been together for eighteen years; he’d thought he’d seen everything.

Until he saw Spot reading through years worth of childhood memories, he’d never realized he’d never seen Spot _remembering_. Nightmares left him panicked, other than that he did his best to forget, to move on and not dwell on the hell of his past.

As he read, Spot had looked not quite nostalgic, but definitely like he wasn’t hating every memory he was cycling through. When he was done, he had rested against Race for a minute, like the mere process of remembering had exhausted him.

And now, while he walked through the other rooms, only ignoring one door, the one Race assumed led to the master bedroom, every single thing seemed to drain more energy from him.

There was so much stuff crammed into the apartment, furniture and junk and food and things Race couldn’t even identify. It was grimy and oppressive and even to somebody who couldn’t even imagine what it had been like to grow up there, it was obviously not a good place. If walls could speak, these ones would have a million horror stories to tell.

“I’m ready to go.” Spot said quietly, taking Race’s hand and squeezing it tightly. “I’m not coming back.”

“Okay. We’ll call somebody to clean and get somebody to sell it.” Spot nodded, closing his eyes again briefly.

“I remember more than I thought I did. If there was a way to burn this place, I’d do it.” He clutched his stack of notebooks to his chest, and Race noticed something else hanging from his hand. “I want to forget.” Race pulled him closer and rested his chin on Spot’s head.

“I’ve got you.”

“I know.” 

Spot didn’t cry often. Race could count the number of times he had seen him cry on his hands. When his sister died their sophomore year, when their cat had died a couple years ago, from a few really bad nightmares.

Now, he wasn’t sobbing, he wasn’t hysterical, but he dropped his notebooks in favor of clutching Race’s shirt and pressing his face into Race’s shoulder, crying quietly, his breathing unsteady.

“I’m here, love, I’ve got you, it’s gonna be okay.” There wasn’t much Race could do other than hold him and rub his back, saying everything reassuring he could think of. “It’s okay, tesoro, it’s okay.”

“I found her necklace. She never took it off, they stole it, Race they stole her necklace, they didn’t let her be buried with her necklace.” Race looked down at the thing Spot was clutching so tightly in his fist. It was a thin chain with a little metal ballet slipper. Clearly, it had started as silver, but the color had faded, either from wear or time, to a duller gray.

After a few minutes, Spot wasn’t talking any more, he was just holding Race, pressing as close as he could get, focusing on steadying his breathing.

“I want to go.” He whispered, not lifting his head off Race’s shoulder. “I never want to come here again.”

Home now was a warm apartment with their dog and their cat and their fish and good food. It was dancing to jazz records on the antique player Race got him for his birthday, and comfortable rainy days watching Netflix on the couch, and not feeling alone or afraid when he came through the door. Home wasn't and never had been this place, and he just wanted to leave and forget he’d ever been there.

**Author's Note:**

> Yikes that was a lot more angsty than I usually get nowadays, huh? Sorry 'bout that, it started as a character exercise but I liked it and decided y'all should read it too.
> 
> As always, I'm Asper, come hang out with me on [ Tumblr](enby-crutchie.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Leaving a comment is guaranteed to make any author's day, don't be shy!


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